


Nyquil, Vicks VapoRub, and Love

by htbthomas



Category: Know Not Why - Hannah Johnson
Genre: Caretaking, Fluff, M/M, Sick Character, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-18 11:21:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13099041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htbthomas/pseuds/htbthomas
Summary: Arthur's sick, and Howie has to take care of him. Now he just has to figure out how to do that.





	Nyquil, Vicks VapoRub, and Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katewonder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katewonder/gifts).



> Thanks to sonni89 for the beta!

_I will not be coming in today._

Howie stops in the parking lot of Artie Kraft's Arts and Crafts squinting at his phone, trying to read the meaning behind Arthur's message, then gives up. He starts to type _Why not?_ but another text message interrupts.

_I am not feeling well. Please ask Cora or Kristy to cover for me._

Oh, wow. Howie stares at the blinking cursor a couple of minutes, trying to remember if Arthur has _ever_ taken a sick day since he's known him. It must be serious. Which is worrisome. He'd seemed fine when Howie had left his place last night.

Howie erases the words he'd typed and replaces them with. _I'm sorry. Can I bring you anything?_

_Just need to rest._

_Okay. Get better soon._ Howie sends a couple of hug emojis then pockets his phone. "Morning," he calls out over the jangle of the bells when he opens the door. "Arthur's not coming in today."

Kristy looks up from where she's organizing the tinsel aisle, eyes wide. "What?"

"He's sick."

"No!" she says in disbelief, tinsel hanging limply in her hand.

From somewhere behind them, Cora complains, "No one is allowed to get sick during the Christmas season; I think it's in the employee contract. He's breaking his own contract here."

Howie lifts his hands in a helpless shrug. "What can I tell you?" Quieter, he asks Kristy, "Has he ever missed a day?"

"I don't think so. Not even during The Great Stomach Flu Incident of 2011." She chuckles. "He ran the whole store single-handedly."

"Is it even possible for robots to get sick?" Cora's voice comes from yet another location. "It must be faulty programming."

"Or a virus!" Howie jokes. "Get it?" Kristy just shakes her head, though she's smiling. Cora is silent, which is the worst sort of censure from her. 

Arthur would have given him a little half-smile, if he were here. He tolerates the teasing most of the time. He sort of has to, with a self-confessed goofball for a boyfriend.

"Anyway… He needs one of you to cover for him until he gets better."

Cora finally pops into view. "And not you? Sheesh. Favoritism."

"Aww, you know Howie has to take care of him, right?" Kristy says. "He can't be in two places at once."

Howie nods. "Yeah, I have to take care of him." Then he freezes in realization. "I have to take care of him." 

Kristy pats him on the shoulder.

In a quiet voice, he says to no one in particular, "How do I take care of him?"

* * *

When his shift is over, Howie heads straight for Arthur's. What exactly is he supposed to do? He tries to remember what his mom used to do when he was sick, but all his fuzzy memory can deliver is that it involved a lot of soup, sleep and curling up in a blanket in front of daytime TV. He doesn't even know what kind of sickness it is. He'd tried to call, then text, but there was no answer. Arthur must really be out of it.

"Arthur..." he calls softly as he lets himself in, "How are you doing?"

There's no answer. He sets down the bag with cans of three kinds of soup on the kitchen counter, even though he has never made soup in his life. How hard can it be? he tells himself, while secretly hoping this is not the kind of sickness that needs soup.

"Arthur?" He knocks gently on the bedroom door. Now that he's outside the door he can hear a gentle wheezing sound coming from the other side. Arthur does not snore. Howie's the snorer—Arthur has gently suggested, _"Perhaps you should get that looked at"_ more than once.

Howie opens the door. Arthur's in the bed, curled on his side, lank hair falling across his face. The room looks tidy as ever, a set of clothes laid out across a chair. But there's a single sock on the floor, possibly dropped from trembling hands. 

"Oh, my poor boy," Howie says, and sits gently beside him. He pushes back the hair from his face to give him a kiss...Arthur is burning up.

Howie checks his forehead in several places and several angles. All of them are hot. Oh no. It's a fever. What do you do for a fever? Painkillers, right?

Howie looks to the bedside table. That's where he always has an assortment of pill bottles and whatnot at his own place. But there's only a reading lamp, an antique-y looking wind-up alarm clock (who even uses those anymore when there are alarm apps on your phone?) and a pair of reading glasses.

Arthur doesn't stir during all of this internal panic, which causes Howie's panic level to notch higher. He gets up and goes to the bathroom, digging through the medicine cabinet for something to bring the fever down. 

For a man who seems to be prepared for any eventuality, there is a shocking lack of medicine in this medicine cabinet. Hair product, yes. Shaving cream and moisturizer, yes. Tylenol, hell no.

He pulls out his phone and calls his mom, one person he knows would know this stuff. "What do you take for a fever?" he asks without preamble.

"Are you okay, sweetie? Do you need me to bring you something?"

"No, no, I'm fine, Mom, it's Arthur. He's the one with a fever."

"Poor thing," she tuts. "Do you need me to bring _him_ something?"

"Yeah..." he starts to say and then changes his mind. "No. Tell me what to get and I'll get it for him."

"Aw, look at you being all grown up and nurturing." He can practically feel the smothering hug over the phone. "Does he have any allergies?"

"No...I don't think so. Crap, I don't actually know. How do I find out? He's asleep. How do I—"

"I'll meet you at the pharmacy."

* * *

The number of bags he comes back with is unreal considering he actually got advice. He's got ibuprofen, he's got acetaminophen, he's got aspirin, he's got Nyquil, Dayquil, Vicks VapoRub. _Something_ in here must be the right stuff.

 _"And make sure he gets fluids,"_ Mom's words ring in his mind.

Fluids, fluids. That's water. Maybe juice, or...tea? Yeah, Arthur likes tea. Howie can handle making a cup of tea.

When he gets to the kitchen, there's already a teakettle on, and it's warm to the touch. "Arthur?" Howie calls out. "Are you awake?"

This time there's a response, but it's too quiet to make out any words. Howie grabs a couple of bags and tiptoes in. Arthur's sitting up in bed, cradling a mug between his fingers. "Howie," he says warmly, but the twinkle disappears too quickly.

"I'm here to take care of you," Howie says, setting the bags down.

Arthur's eyebrow rises. He can still do that, as pale as he is. "You? Have you ever taken care of anyone before?"

"Even so, I'm who you've got." Howie sits on the edge of the bed. "How are you feeling?" 

"Cold. And hot. Both at once sometimes." His forehead crinkles with worry. "Is this normal?"

"Have you ever been sick in your life?" Howie asks, trying hard not to laugh at his boyfriend's pain. He's mostly successful. "I think you might have the flu," Howie adds sagely, not mentioning his discussion with Mom in the pharmacy an hour ago.

"I must, because nothing I've taken has seemed to work." He gestures at the wastebasket, where there are a few empty bottles. _That's_ where the medicine was. Arthur is still fastidious, even when ill.

"Mom says you can treat the symptoms" —he lifts up one of his pharmacy bags— "but otherwise it just takes time and rest."

"Mom says?"

"All right, you caught me. I needed help."

"Color me unsurprised," Arthur teases. Maybe he's less sick than he seems. But then he closes his eyes and grimaces at some unseen pain.

"But you'll still let me take care of you, right?" He places a gentle hand on Arthur's arm. "I can follow advice like a champ." 

"If you keep her on speed dial..."

He takes Arthur's mug from his hands. "Promise. Now, let me freshen this up and go heat up some soup," he says, getting up and going into the hallway. "Remind me, do you put the can in the microwave or the oven?"

"Howie...!"

"Kidding, kidding," Howie calls back, glad he's out of reach.

* * *

Three days later, Arthur is well enough to return to work. "Good morning, ladies. I trust everything went well in my absence?"

"We had a run on gingerbread house kits," Kristy says, "but otherwise, we handled it."

"There'd better be overtime pay coming," Cora tells him. When Arthur gives her a conceding nod, she cranes her neck to look around the entrance to the shop. "Where's your nursemaid?"

Arthur purses his lips, thinking about Howie's nearly unintelligible, moaning phone call this morning. _"Issss your fault I feel so… oh my god, I can't feel my—"_ The phone dropping to the floor muffled most of the rest.

It's his turn to do the caretaking. He gives Cora an apologetic grimace. "About that overtime pay…"


End file.
